


The Adventure of Mr. Albert Stevens, Murderer (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [66]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Army, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Police, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A man is going to be hung for a crime that he is most assuredly innocent of – but he is equally most assuredly guilty of two other crimes that he got away with. Sherlock makes a moral judgement, and Watson makes a 'little' mistake.





	The Adventure of Mr. Albert Stevens, Murderer (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedBlackWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedBlackWings/gifts).



Of all the cases that Sherlock and I undertook, there were were many where his resolution did not precisely adhere to the letter of English law (by a large distance, in some cases!). However, as he himself so often said, he was an agent of justice first and the law second, and if the two clashed, he would always choose justice. Few cases demonstrated this thinking better than that of Mr. Albert Stevens, a man who went to the gallows for a crime that he did not commit, yet as sure as the Sun rises in the east was as guilty as sin. Naturally I could not publish this case at the time, for as the actions of Sherlock (and to an extent, myself) were technically unlawful. I only ask that the reader empathizes with us, and considers what they would have done in a similarly impossible situation. Justice and the law are not always bedfellows, and the country needs agents of both to keep it true and righteous.

+~+~+

It was October, and I was feeling depressed by the grey autumn weather. Our adventure in Reigate (yes, the one that had resulted in a certain photograph that a certain bacon-stealing detective still had on their writing-desk, damn him!) was being published in the “Strand” magazine; to my annoyance I had had to do a lot of extra work on it the previous month after the magazine editor's replacement whilst he was on holiday sent me a 'corrected' copy with so many basic spelling and grammatical errors that I had had to all but rewrite the whole thing. Education these days had a lot to answer for!

It was Sergeant Henriksen who brought the Stevens Affair to our notice, albeit reluctantly. He had called round to report on a minor case that Sherlock had advised him on, but had seemed unusually preoccupied.

“Something is troubling you, Henriksen”, Sherlock observed. The dark-skinned policeman looked up ruefully from his coffee. 

“That obvious?” he grunted.

I only narrowly bit back the remark that he had barely looked at the sponge cream cake that Mrs. Harvelle had provided. Even a non-detective like myself could put two and two together and make....

Damnation, Sherlock was looking at me again!

“It's the Stevens case”, the policeman admitted glumly. “The man goes to the gallows on Friday, and.... damn it, my gut says he's innocent, even though I know he's guilty!”

Sherlock cut the sergeant a large slice of cake and placed it on the table next to him. He did not immediately start devouring it. Lord, this was serious!

“I think that you had better start at the beginning”, my friend smiled, staring askance at me for some reason. “Watson read the article to me from yesterday's paper, but I dare say that viewing it without the distorting prism of the average London journalist will throw a whole new light on the affair.”

Henriksen sighed heavily.

“It goes back several months, to the case of Major Paddy Stevens”, he began. “He was in the Buffs, serving out in Malaya. There was an attack by some local rebels, and he was one of the men captured. His men got him back, but there was a suggestion, fanned by a statement from one of the captured rebels, that he had gone willingly, and even been instrumental in arranging the attack.”

“Desertion?” I asked, horrified. “But why would he do such a thing?”

“It made no sense”, Henriksen said. “He was coming up to retirement, and the regiment was almost at the end of its service there; besides which army rules meant that he could not be sent out to that part of the world again, or abroad for that matter. The man who made the allegations against him was one of his own men, a Sergeant Sean Mallow. Stevens was court-martialed, found guilty – to the surprise of many in the Army, it might be added - and dishonourably discharged.”

“I take it that there is more?” Sherlock asked. Henriksen nodded.

“Of course people talked, and it came out that the court may have been less than impartial”, he said. “One of the three judges, or whatever they call them, was Colonel Seamus Mallow, the accusor's father. It also emerged that Sean Mallow was up for promotion against Major Stevens' own son Albert, a sergeant in the same regiment. The charge ruined Albert Stevens' chances; he resigned from the army, and accompanied his father home. But – and here's the clincher – young Albert was at the court, and swore that he would have justice, one way or the other.”

I swallowed. This sounded ominous.

“Apart from Colonel Mallow, the two other judges were also colonels, Eustace Fairfax and William Montacute-West. The Buffs got back two weeks ago, September the twentieth, and two days after that Colonel Mallow was shot dead in his own house. No-one linked it to the court-martial at the time – until two days later, when Colonel Fairfax was shot too. In both cases a sprig of lavender, the symbol of the Buffs, was left next to the dead body.”

“That seems odd”, Sherlock frowned. “Almost as if Mr. Albert Stevens was proclaiming his guilt.”

Henriksen nodded.

“Naturally we suspected the man, but getting up a case against him proved all but impossible. He didn't have alibis for the times of the two murders, but he had been clever; no-one had seen him enter or leave the buildings, and although we checked all the guns at his house, none had been fired recently.”

“Unless he was hiding the actual murder weapon”, I said. 

“Then last Saturday, the thirtieth, we got lucky”, Henriksen continued. “Or luckier than Colonel Montacute-West, who went the same way as his fellow judges. Again the lavender, but this time we found something else – a button underneath the dead body. Better still, the colonel's house is almost opposite the local pub, and two of the area's coppers were outside having lunch. They saw someone come out of the grounds next door, but when they later questioned the owners, they said that no-one had called at the house.”

“Why next door?” I wondered.

“There was only a low wall dividing the two properties”, Henriksen explained, “and there is a gate in it. Presumably Stevens used that way in in case he was spotted entering the colonel's house. His bad luck and our good that we had some men on the spot.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Was Stevens questioned over the first two murders?” he asked.

“He was”, Henriksen said. “Mallow's house is in the same street at his fellow colonel's, and it was one of the constables who found the body who questioned him. Smith, I think his name is, and the other one is Turlow. Fairfax lives in Essex somewhere.”

I wondered at that. Why not kill the two colonels living next to each other at the same time, and instead go all the way to Essex and back in between?

“A button and a distant sighting do not seem much to hang a man by”, Sherlock observed. Henriksen grinned.

“When they took him in for questioning a second time, Stevens had a button missing from his shirt”, he said. “Not only that, but the buttons had been tailored with the design of a sprig of lavender. They were regimental issue, very rare. And again, he had no alibi. Saturday was the day he always went fishing alone down the canal, and no-one saw him.”

Sherlock frowned.

“I do not see the problem”, he said. Henriksen sighed.

“Three things”, he said. “First, Stevens denies murdering Colonel Montacute-West, despite the evidence. I've been in the game long enough to have a sense of when someone's lying, and my gut says that, despite all we know, he's telling the truth on this one, though I think he's guilty of the first two. Then there's Miss Montacute-West.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Penelope Montacute-West, the colonel's daughter”, he explained. “She came to me on Sunday, and told me that her father had wanted to find Colonel Stevens innocent, but had been outvoted. Courts-martial do not say whether the decisions they reach are unanimous or majority, but her father wrote to Stevens' father immediately after the hearing to tell him. I challenged Stevens on this when I met him yesterday, and he not only admitted that his father had received the letter, but told me where the key to the drawer in his father's writing-desk was kept, so I could see it for myself. I did, and there it was.”

I saw what that meant. Stevens would therefore had had no motive to kill the third member of the court.

“Is there another reason for your suspicions, apart from your gut?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes”, Henriksen admitted. “The first two deaths were long-distance shootings, across a room; in both cases there was no-one in the house close enough to hear the shots. But Montacute-West was shot close-up, the gun held right against his chest. Now, the house had servants and people in it, but the difference between the two methods... it worries me. Leopards don't change their spots, and crims don't change their ways of being crims.”

“Who benefits from the three deaths?” I asked.

“You're thinking killing two to cover up a third murder, aren't you?” Henriksen said. “Hiding a leaf in a forest, like back with that Walker fellow. Mallow owned a considerable estate, which all goes to his army son Sean. The boy decided to buy himself out of the army, and live off the fat of the land instead. He is a right nasty piece of work, in my opinion, and he has no alibi for the other two killings. And when he was questioned after the third killing, he said that he had been out shooting that morning, so of course he would have had gunshot residue on his hands. Too convenient for my liking.”

“Colonel Fairfax had no children, so his fairly small estate was divided equally amongst charities and five distant cousins; the most any of them got was a few hundred. Montacute-West is the most interesting, and I only know this because the solicitor contacted the local police as soon as he saw what had happened. The colonel made a will dividing his property equally between his son Darius and his daughter. Neither of them knew that; they both think it will all go to the son. Plus Darius Montacute-West is a bit of a rake and has huge debts, which he probably still thinks he can clear with all that money.”

“Is the Montacute-West estate large?” Sherlock asked. 

“Even if he had inherited the lot, probably not enough to support him for more than a few years, with his record”, Henriksen sniffed. “This is all off the record, of course; as I said, the solicitor only told us because it will come out anyway at the reading of the will next week. I wish I was there to see their faces!”

“You can rely on our discretion”, Sherlock said. “The case seems quite straightforward.”

Henriksen stared at him.

“You think that Stevens did kill the third colonel?” he asked.

“I think that your gut feeling is, as so often, quite accurate”, Sherlock smiled. “But we have less than seventy-two hours until Mr. Stevens meets his maker, and has to account for his actions in the one court that cannot be rigged. We must move quickly. Doctor, can you be free this afternoon?”

I had been supposed to go into work that afternoon, but clearly this was more pressing. The surgery had been pleased with the publicity surrounding my latest works and had as a result granted me a degree of flexibility, provided I made up for any absences later.

“If I can send a telegram to work to let them know, then yes”, I said, not missing the way that my friend's eyes lit up at that.

“In that case”, Sherlock smiled, “you should meet back up with us again tomorrow afternoon, Henriksen. Hopefully we shall have something to tell you. Besides”, he added mischievously, “I am sure we can keep a slice of this cake until then!”

Henriksen looked at him mournfully.

“Or wrap it so you can take it with you”, my friend smiled.

I thought wryly that all local criminals would have to do was to leave a handily-placed slice of cake around to distract any pursuit, and....

Sherlock was looking at me again!

+~+~+

Unfortunately the surgery, whilst willing to let me have the afternoon off, asked that I come in immediately to attend to one of their richest (and fussiest) clients, Lady Drinkwater. I was annoyed, as the “Strand” magazine had just been delivered to the house, and I looked forward to checking the final installment of the Reigate case for any last-minute inaccuracies that may have crept back in. I left Sherlock reading it – he had of course checked the story anyway – and told him that I would get lunch whilst out, and would be back by one at the latest.

In fact I made it back by half-past twelve, only to find that my friend had gone out. However, Mrs. Harvelle assured me that he would be back soon, as he had only gone out for a walk. I poured myself a coffee and sat down to wait for him.

The moment he came through the door, I knew that something was wrong.

“What is up?” I asked. He looked at me darkly.

“I read your latest story”, he said, looking at me severely. “You called me 'little man'.”

I tried to remember, hoping that it had been just another error by that damn replacement editor, but no such luck. I had used those words when I had rewritten the piece, and had been so keen to get the dratted work published that I had not shown them to him. Oh.

“You are not that little”, I said defensively. Sherlock was a couple of inches above average height, but he always carried himself like a smaller man, and I had a couple of inches on him. “And I will make sure that the book publishers correct it before they out it into print.”

“A lot of people read that magazine, Watson”, he said plaintively. “I am not pleased.”

He went into his room and shut the door behind him. I felt awful!

+~+~+

He was still annoyed with me later that day when we took a cab to the scene of the first and third murders, the small Surrey town of Mortlake. The two colonels had lived in a quieter part of the town, where the houses were notably larger. The pub in the area appeared to be doing a roaring trade, although the recent shower had cleared the outside benches. 

Sherlock went inside and ordered lunch – I could trust him to do that, whereas Sammy would always try to order us both salad! - and soon we were ensconced on an outside table, with food and beer.

“I wondered at one thing”, I said, wishing that he would forgive my moment of literary stupidity.

“What?” he asked.

“Why did Stevens kill here, then go all the way to Essex, then come back and kill here again?” I said. He could have dispatched the Essex target, and then struck at both targets here. We passed the other colonel's house only up the street, after all.”

He looked at me.

“That is a most excellent observation”, he said.

I preened.

“Little man!” he muttered.

I scowled.

We had finished our food when two police constables passed us and went into the pub, then came out with their own meals and drinks. One was blond and rather reedy, whilst the other was dark, shorter and frowned a lot. The blond policeman had his right arm in a sling, I noted, which made eating difficult.

Sherlock said nothing until we had finished our drinks, and did not seem inclined to leave. Eventually the two policemen finished and left, and the barmaid came out to clear their table.

“One of your local policemen is injured, I see”, Sherlock observed conversationally.

She turned and eyed him critically, and I felt a surge of protectiveness towards my friend. She was at least ten years older than him (and getting on for twice the body weight!) but she was still eyeing him like he would make a tasty meal.

“That's our Mark Turlow”, she said. “He got that dealing with a burglary last month; fell down a fire-exit, would you believe? Should be out of it by next week, though.”

“All in the line of duty”, Sherlock smiled. 

“You just down here for the day?” she asked. “'Cause we have... rooms, you know.”

She was quite clearly offering much more than just a room. I snapped.

“We are heading back now”, I said, a little too forcibly as I stood up. Sherlock looked surprised but followed me away from the pub, even as I all but ran to the roadside to hail a cab.

“Are we done here, doctor?” he asked quietly.

I blushed.

“I just wanted to get away from her and those come-hither eyes”, I said, a little petulantly. “Her sort are only after one thing!”

The knowing smile on his face only served to increase my discomfiture. Fortunately he changed the subject.

“Fortunately, I have all I need to complete the case”, he said, and he sounded almost rueful. “Though as so often, delivering justice will be.... difficult.”

“I have faith in you”, I said, before I could stop myself. 

I wondered if I should open my mouth wider, so I could get the other foot in whilst I was at it. He smiled at me, and hailed a passing cab for us. The ride back to Baker Street was silent, but it was a strangely comfortable silence. And when I got home, I wrote to my publishers at once.

+~+~+

The following day, Henriksen called round as promised. Clearly either he was still feeling off-colour, or he was eager to find out what if anything Sherlock had learned, for the slice of sponge cake by his tea went almost untouched.

Almost. This was Henriksen, after all.

“What did you find out?” he asked eagerly. Sherlock hesitated.

“I would like to ask you a question”, he said slowly. “What is your personal opinion of the two constables who found the body, Smith and Turlow? Be assured that it will not be repeated outside these four walls.”

Henriksen was clearly surprised at the question, and had to think for a moment.

“Only what their own sergeant, Woolston, told me about them”, he said. “Turlow is ambitious and wants promotion, whilst Smith is, he suspects, marking time until something better comes along. Their beats are next to each other, and Turlow got his injury during a burglary a couple of weeks back.”

Sherlock nodded at that.

“And your gut feeling still says that Mr. Albert Stevens did not kill Colonel Montacute-West?” he said.

Henriksen nodded. 

“Was Stevens searched when he was questioned at the station in Mortlake?” Sherlock asked.

“Both times”, Henriksen smiled. “Of course his lawyer got all uptight about it, but then they always do.”

“Who searched him?” Sherlock asked.

Henriksen had to consult his case notes, which Sherlock had asked him to bring.

“Turlow and Smith did the first time”, he said. “Stevens lives just over the river in Chiswick, you see. They found nothing. The second time, the lawyer was there, and he insisted Sergeant Woolston examine the clothes in his presence. Woolston took them into another room, but he found nothing too.”

“Did you check as to whether Mr. Darius Montacute-West had an alibi?” I asked.

Henriksen nodded.

“Not for the first murder – he was at home all day – but for the second he was visiting a friend in Barnet, and they swear that he stayed there all day”, he said ruefully. “He was at home when his father was murdered, but in the outside greenhouse, and says he heard nothing. I went there myself, and he may be telling the truth; it backs right onto the river, and I don't think I could have heard anyone inside the house, let alone in the study which is round the other side.”

“Friends can lie”, I muttered.

Sherlock sighed heavily and, to my surprise, looked at me.

“I do not think that the good doctor will be happy with what may result from what I about to tell you”, he said to Henriksen, “but your gut feeling was quite correct. Mr. Albert Stevens did not kill Colonel Montacute-West.”

“But the lavender!” I objected.

“It was that particular herb which suggested the identity of the real murderers”, my friend said.

“More than one?” Henriksen exclaimed.

“Constables Smith and Turlow”, Sherlock said.

There was a stunned silence before Henriksen found his voice.

“Impossible!” he snorted. Sherlock leaned forward. 

“When the two constables took Stevens in for questioning the first time”, he began, “they already knew the fundamentals of the case against him. He had, as they saw it, motive to kill three men for their cruel and malicious misjudgement of his father. After the first death, anyone would assume that he would move on to kill the other two colonels. The constables could not know at the time of the letter showing that Montacute-West had demurred at the sentence, which fact you yourself told us only came to light when Stevens was questioned _after_ the shooting. It also explains Watson's point as to why the Essex murder took place between two in the same Surrey street; because the second Surrey murder was never to happen.”

“Stevens first kills Mallow, the architect of his family's ruin, on the fourteenth, and naturally he is brought in for questioning. I think that Turlow was the driving-force behind this, and his friend went along with it because that, after all, is the police way – protect each other at all costs. Turlow expected that Stevens would strike at the other two colonels, but he also knows that the man is, after all, a trained killer. It is highly unlikely that he will be caught.”

“He plans it well. During the search of Stevens' clothes at Mortlake Police Station, he spots and removes a distinctive button for use later. He is fortunate that the house of Colonel Montacute-West is on his beat, so he keeps an eye on it for when the attack happens.”

“Next, Stevens kills Fairfax, up in Essex. This doubtless worries Turlow; surely Stevens would strike at the two men close together one after the other. Why has he gone all the way to Essex when one of the targets is close at hand? Still, he waits for his return and the third murder.”

“But as we know, Stevens does not strike at the third colonel. Time drags on, and it becomes clear that, for whatever reason, Montacute-West is to be spared. That does not suit Turlow at all; his future promotion prospects hinge on a successful arrest of a guilty killer on his patch. The colonel must die.”

I stared in shock. Killing an innocent man just for a promotion? Sherlock continued with his tale.

“He gets hold of Stevens' statement from the second murder, and sees an opening. The man had no alibi because he always goes fishing in a quiet spot by the canal near his house every Saturday. So he will have no alibi for the coming weekend. The long delay between the second and 'third' murder is irritating, but he hopes that it will go unnoticed. Larger things have, when the police are being pushed to achieve a result.” 

“On the Saturday, Turlow and Smith go to Montacute House, and are of course admitted. Smith shoots the colonel with the same type of gun that they know Stevens possesses, a sprig of lavender is left, and the button is placed underneath the body. There was, as you yourself said, scorching around the bullet wound. That would have only happened if the killer had been exceptionally close to the colonel, and the only people he would allow to do that would be either family or someone apparently trustworthy. Like, say a policeman.”

Henriksen shook his head in disbelief.

“How do you know that Smith shot him?” he asked.

“Turlow has that arm injury”, Sherlock explained, “and from the way he was struggling when we observed him, it was clearly his principal arm.” 

I slid a glass of whisky next to Henriksen's tea, and he downed it gratefully. Then he looked at us, his eyes hardening.

“What you are saying”, he said quietly, “is that Mr. Albert Stevens is going to the gallows for a crime that he did not commit.”

Sherlock looked meaningfully at me.

“True”, he said, “but the alternative is that he evades going to the gallows for two crimes that we know he _did_ commit. And there is always the possibility that he confesses at the last.”

Henriksen was looking at me too, now.

“What?” I asked, shifting uncomfortably.

“You are the English conscience”, Sherlock said quietly. “If you say that this must go forward, then a murderer will walk free. If you decide to say nothing, then he will be hung for a crime he did not commit. The difference between justice and the law is sometimes a wide one, my friend.”

“You are putting this on me?” I exclaimed.

“He trusts your judgement”, Henriksen said. “As do I.”

I sighed. It wasn't just Henriksen who needed a stiff drink.

+~+~+

Albert Edward Stevens went to the gallows at nine o'clock on a breezy Friday morning. There were no last-minute appeals or reprieves, but he did leave a signed letter admitting to the first two murders, whilst repeating his denials as to the third. Based on the information Sherlock had provided, Constables Turlow and Smith were subsequently charged with gross misconduct in a public office – Henriksen grudgingly conceded that there was little chance of their being convicted of murder – and were forced to quit the service. Turlow left the country for Canada, whilst Smith sank into London's low-life and was never seen of or heard from again. 

+~+~+

As an inimitable flame-haired lady enters our lives for the first and thankfully not the last time, the object that Sherlock is called to find in our next case is both unusual and extremely large!


End file.
